


Iron Chefs

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Early Work, Food, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-29
Updated: 2001-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan and Methos have a culinary disagreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Chefs

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to elynross for betaing this

Rain pelted the roof at Joe's, and the building echoed with the force of it. Peripherally, Methos was aware that all that rain should make him feel warm and cozy, sitting here in the back of the room, tucked into a corner across from Mac, Joe pouring them drinks--

Methos picked up his scotch, and his fingers brushed up against Mac's, for what must have been the fifth or sixth time. What was with Mac today? He was practically sitting in Methos' lap.

To be fair -- not that he wanted to be -- everything about Mac grated on him today, from the way he looked, to the way he talked, to-- just everything. It was like a constant low hum emanating from somewhere inside of Mac, something that had nothing to do with the Quickening. It rubbed at his nerves constantly, yet at the same time, something about it...intrigued him. "You know--"

"Don't start with the eels again." Mac abruptly pushed himself away from the table slightly, leaned back and lifted his head heavenward. "They taste like shit."

"You are the one who keeps bringing up eels, MacLeod. _I_ am talking about the history of cooking." The distance eased the pressure a little, but part of Methos disliked the emptiness that replaced it.

" _You_ are talking out of your arse."

Methos glared at Mac. That's the thanks he got for trying to get a conversation going. Who knew MacLeod was so sensitive about food? "Some of the best meals I've ever had have had eels in them. Just because you never learned--"

"Oh, I know how to cook them," Mac said, "I just don't like them. I've had them shredded, roasted, and filleted, in sashimi and in bouillabaisse. We ate them all the time when I was a boy, and no matter what you do to them, they *still* taste like eel. Not chicken. Eel." He took a sip of his drink, and looked over at Joe. "Now duck--"

"Please!" Methos interrupted, waving his hand in the air. Mac was being so obstinate today. He wouldn't budge an inch, and the whole business was driving Methos right round the bend. Who was it who had five thousand years experience, hmmm? As if Mac would give him credit for that. "You have no idea how to cook a duck. It needs to be cooked over an open fire--"

"Slow roasted in an oven works just as well."

What an arrogant child! "Never gets the right crispness."

"What, charcoal? I've eaten burnt duck enough times in my life, thanks. Perhaps you've grown accustomed to the taste in your oh-so-long-and-retiring life, but burnt, nearly charcoaled flesh has never really appealed to me."

"Gentlemen!" Joe barked, grabbing Methos' attention and making him sit up straighter.

"What?" Mac and he replied in unison, before glaring at each other again.

"I'll make you a deal. You two shut up for a while, and next Sunday, I'll come over to Mac's place to judge your duck cooking contest."

A duck cooking contest? Oh, that was brilliant.

Mac nodded once. "Fine by me. We'll meet at my place at noon. You come over at six."

As if he would let Mac show him up. "Make it eight," Methos added airily. "Some things take time to prepare."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Fine. Eight o'clock next Sunday. Mike can manage the place. Now," he grinned maniacally, "You two promised to shut up."

Grudgingly, Methos leaned back in his chair, sipped his drink, and listened to the rain.

* * *

Methos left his car in the lot and trudged up the steps into the dojo, and then straight back into the elevator. He locked the elevator in position, then made two more trips out to the car and back. Three bags of groceries, everything organic that he could find; two stackable plastic boxes filled with the right saucepans, knives, and spices; a bottle of wine for cooking, and two for drinking; and of course, the stainless steel stovetop smoker. It wouldn't be as good as an open fire, but he was sure he could get close. They'd just see if Mac could out-cook him now.

MacLeod was waiting for him, dressed in black T-shirt and jeans, lacking sword and shoes and hair ties. Methos wondered if he'd just finished his shower; it looked like his hair was still damp. "I see you brought your kitchen with you."

"Of course," Methos said, hauling the first of the boxes out into the hall. "As if I would trust you to have everything I need."

Mac snorted, coming over to help put things away. "Let me take that." He squeezed Methos' shoulder as he moved around him and hefted the first plastic box up onto the counter.

"I managed just fine getting them out of the car, you know." Methos' arm tingled where they touched, and he rubbed the spot absent-mindedly as he decided which of the bags he should deal with first.

"I know. If you'd called up to let me know you'd arrived, I would have helped you unpack." Mac took off the box lid and stared into the interior. "My God, you did bring your kitchen with you."

Methos snorted. Probably it was best to soak the wood chips and get the duck started. He set the other two paper bags in front of the refrigerator, storing away the carrots, onions, and other vegetables for later, then put the duck wrapped in its white butcher paper onto the counter.

"I have one of these." Mac was holding up two of the exact same type of peelers. For some reason, Methos felt inordinately pleased that they shared the same taste in peelers. "You want me to leave the extra one in the box?"

Smiling, Methos nodded. "You do have a corkscrew, I trust?"

"You mean you didn't bring one?" Mac looked at him in wide-eyed mock horror.

Methos blinked. Mac looked -- silly, yes, but -- good. Really good. As in eyes dark enough to get lost in, and that hair spilling over his shoulders, not to mention those lips... Then Mac tossed him the corkscrew, which Methos caught one-handed, and the image was gone.

But his arm still tingled.

Eventually, the crates were unloaded. They kept their knives separate. A knife fit in your hand like it was a part of it, an extension made of steel, a sleek and powerful weight. Where Methos had about a dozen knives of various sizes and makes, each one perfect for its use, Mac had two sets of three different types of knives: boning, paring, and chef's, one with silver handles, and one with black. How anyone could survive with that few knives -- it was insanity.

Methos conceded that Mac's mandolin was better than his, so that stayed in the box as well. But Mac seemed to have fallen in love with Methos' hand blender, running his hands over the stainless steel casing, examining it the way he would a new sword.

Methos felt the back of his jaws ache as Mac ran his fingers over the gleaming metal, his hands a dark contrast, cracked and weathered from sword work, pressing and rubbing the sleek surface. He felt himself blushing, and looked away; really, where was his mind? He should be focused on the competition, not his competitor.

He set up his work area on the opposite end of the kitchen from Mac, next to the sink and the metal rack, while Mac worked at the end of the island nearest the windows. Methos took out two thick ceramic bowls to soak the wood for the smoker. To the white bowl he added the cherry wood, while the blue contained alder, then he added enough water to each to cover the shavings. It would take about an hour before they were ready; it was time to start on the duck.

Maybe he should get a drink before that. He'd already been here almost an hour, and he hadn't had a sip of beer or wine yet. Suiting actions to thoughts, he poured himself some of the wine he'd brought for a marinade.

"Methos?"

"Hrmm?" He'd noticed that Mac had a whole duck in his refrigerator; Methos had only purchased the breast. He unwrapped the meat, leaving it lying on the white paper while he contemplated his plan of attack.

"Methos?"

He took out the string, the olive oil, the garlic, and the fresh sprigs of rosemary. First thing he should do is de-bone it... No, first he should crush the garlic, then he should de-bone it-- A hand at his back startled him, and Methos glanced at Mac.

Damn, those lips -- he blinked. Those lips were forming words, but for a moment they didn't make any sense, he'd been so lost in his own thoughts.

"Shift over." Mac nodded at the counter. "I need the coriander."

"Ah." He scooted out of the way as Mac reached around him, and there it was again, that tingling sensation. Only this time, it was accompanied by a tightness in his chest, and the feeling that his stomach had just dropped three floors without him. His pulse was rapid, his skin prickling like it was close to some heat.

"Methos?"

Mac's brow was knit in concern, and he looked -- vulnerable. Methos wanted to touch him, press his palm against Mac's face and ease the tension there. Oh, Methos thought. So that's what this was about. He felt like such a fool. "I'm fine. Just thinking."

The concern fading into crinkled lines at the edges of Mac's eyes. "Thinking that much can't be good for you."

"I'm fine," Methos snapped, his stomach churning, anticipation building deep within him. He felt more certain, more centered, even as his world changed around him. He should have seen this coming.

Shaking his head, Mac muttered, "And you say I'm moody."

"Well, you usually are."

Mac snorted derisively and went back to -- whatever it was he was working on; Methos couldn't tell as Mac's body blocked the way.

Methos ignored him. Stupid. Idiot. Fool. He tried four other languages, but fool really expressed exactly how he felt. Methos marked the breasts with his knife and tied each one into a tight bundle with some rosemary. How could he have been so stupid? He thought back on the last few days, the last week, the last month, the last year. The signs were all there; why had he hidden the desire from himself? He slid the breasts into the mixture of white wine, lime juice, garlic, and olive oil, then stared down into the fragrant pool. It was amazing how good he was at choosing to not see things sometimes -- at being determinedly blind.

He grimaced at his thoughts -- chance would be a fine thing -- then slipped the bowl into the fridge, and slid the last of the white wine back out, topping off his glass and tossing the empty into the garbage. It would be an hour before he could put the meat into the smoker; he'd wait until then to start the other dishes.

"Sorry." Mac placed a hand on Methos' shoulder, reaching around him to put the spices away; he knocked over one of the other jars, leaving a trail of coriander along the counter edge. "Damn," he muttered; Methos grabbed a sponge and thrust it under the water, then handed it to Mac.

"This should help." Methos turned his head slightly. Mac's neck was right there, and Methos could smell him, feel his warmth as Mac wiped down the counter and put the spices back. Methos ached to touch him, but feeling like an idiot, he settled for simply running his fingers across Mac's hand.

Mac hesitated a moment, his breath a small gasp. With a puzzled look, Mac tossed the sponge into the sink and headed back to island. He cast a lingering glance at Methos before turning back to his food.

Methos wondered about that look. He turned to check on what Mac was doing, and was startled to find him wrist-deep in a fresh loaf of bread. The smell of yeast, wine, rosemary, and garlic mixed freely in the kitchen; Methos started to salivate.

At least -- he hoped it was the smell of dinner that made him salivate, but he suspected that part of it was the play of Mac's muscles across his back as he folded, and squeezed, and turned the tender, pliant dough.

Methos leaned back against the far counter, sipping his wine, mesmerized, watching Mac's hands. His mouth was dry, and he took another drink, but this one went down wrong and he started to choke.

Immediately, Mac was there, greasy, dough-covered hand grabbing Methos' shoulder. "You all right?"

"Mac, I'm fine. Really. Immortal, remember?" He looked down at his arm, where some dough and flour prints lingered. "Though I'm not sure about the sweater."

Mac laughed. "You shouldn't wear your good clothes to cook in."

Something in Mac's voice made Methos smile, and a reckless sense of danger swept through him, leaving his heart pounding. "All right," he said defiantly, and took his sweater off, revealing the T-shirt underneath. "That should keep it from gathering more stains."

Mac stared at him and swallowed hard. "Won't you get -- cold?"

"In this kitchen?" Methos asked, moving closer. "I'm burning up." He was standing right in front of Mac, his sweater off, weight resting on his back leg. There was barely a book width between them.

"You are," Mac growled, shoving his hand into Methos' hair and pulling him forward into a kiss.

Hungry and demanding, neither of them played the blushing bride. Methos slid his hands up Mac's back, enjoying the play of muscle and skin under his hands. A thread of desire curled its way around his spine, leaving him tingling. * _Oh, yes.*_

He kissed Mac back, just as forcefully. He nibbled on Mac's lips, and pressed his tongue into Mac's mouth, delving into the warm, moist heat. He gave himself over to the sensation, reveling in every press and pulse of his skin sliding against Mac's.

Finally, he pulled back and looked at Mac. Mac's lips were swollen and parted from their kisses; his hair was a mess where Methos' hands had tangled in it. Methos grinned. "This wasn't about cooking, was it?"

Mac pulled Methos in closer, so their groins pressed together; both of them were hard. "Doesn't look that way."

"So..." Methos looked at the bread. "Would that keep?"

Mac smiled. "Long enough."

"Good. I don't think Joe needs a gourmet dinner, anyway. Duck, bread, salad--" He shivered as Mac leaned down and nibbled at his neck. "--and I think we're through."

"I wouldn't say that." Mac's eyes held an evil glint, and Methos felt his stomach tighten in response.

"Okay," he groaned as Mac nuzzled behind his ear. "Maybe not through."

Mac leaned in and kissed Methos again, running his hands over Methos' skin, sliding the tips of his fingers into the waistband of Methos' jeans. They scratched a little as they rubbed, making Methos tingle. "What about dessert?"

The question took a while to permeate Methos' brain, as his system seemed to be paying far more attention to Mac's touch than to Mac's words. "I didn't think we needed one."

"You're right." Mac returned to nibbling Methos' neck, then sucked his earlobe. "There's plenty right here. How about staying for breakfast?" Mac asked, pressing against Methos' cock through his pants.

"Uh-huh." Just don't stop, Methos wanted to say, but the words came out as more of a nonsensical groan.

Mac didn't seem to mind.

* * *

Mac had laid the table with some of his best, a French linen tablecloth and platinum rimmed china. It was a little disturbing to see Mac playing Martha Stewart, but Methos didn't mind. In fact, Methos couldn't stop grinning as he watched Joe eat. Mac kicked him under the table once, but Methos just kicked him back. He took a drink of his beer and winked at Mac when Joe wasn't looking. He couldn't help but flirt.

It was a good night.

Finally, Joe pushed back his chair, folded his hands across his stomach, and belched, making the candles flicker. "That was damn good."

"I didn't know you were such a culinary expert," Methos said.

Joe snorted. "Yeah," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I write a food column for the Seacouver Times." He shook his head. "I didn't think you two could do it. Both of you in the same kitchen, and the meal is edible. How'd you manage it?"

"Cooperation," Mac piped in, sliding his hand down Methos' thigh, under the tablecloth where Joe couldn't see. 

"We figured out what we wanted, and the rest was easy," Methos added, folding his hand over Mac's, enjoying the warmth. "Your bread and my duck," he said fondly, "We could go places."

"Around the bend, probably," Mac muttered, rotating his hand and laced his fingers through Methos'. "Just don't try to get me to eat eel."

Joe grinned, and Methos laughed, the food, the warmth and the company making him feel settled at last.


End file.
